Home Page		Finding Us		The Park		Attractions		Poems		Tariffs		Links

Poems

Caravanner's Prayer

When we pack up in the morning may the annex be quite dry
May the pegs be easily removed and no leaves stick to the fly
Let the stabilisers wind up without that horrid squeak
And loose items give no trouble when to stow them we seek

May I back up with the ball lined up precisely with its mate
And remember to remove the jockey wheel before it's too late
May I drive away real smoothly the day's journey to begin
And not to have to turn back with the key I should hand in

Let the road be sealed and free of works of the detour kind
May the rain refrain from falling and the wind blow from behind
Don't let flies come in their millions when we make our morning stop
Let the thermos not be empty cause I didn't screw on the top

May the road signs not confuse us as we go upon our way
And let no sheep or kangaroos into the roadway stray
Let us reach the Caravan Park well before the night
And dear God let there be a suitable powered site

May the site be large and roomy, preferably drive through
Or please let there be somebody there to tell me what to do
Don't let me try for hours to back that wretched van in place
Watched by other campers with a smile upon their face

Or if you want to punish me for some forgotten sin
Don't let it be by leaving me with my wife to guide me in
And there is another thing I do of you beseech
When when the van's in place please let the power cord reach

They say you are a God of love and if that indeed is true
Please ensure I get a site not too far from the loo
I'll have to go at night desperate I will be
Don't let me get to the loo to find I have no key

I pray that all the campers round about our site
Are friendly and considerate especially at night
Keeping their dogs and generators quiet
So the night life can be heard at our site

And when at last I go to bed and gently close the door
Oh dear Lord let me be the only one to snore

Caravanning Bliss

Perhaps Banjo had been woken, in a van park from his sleep
Some two hours before the sunrise, by strange noises from the deep.

All the 'erk, erk, erk' of van legs, being screwed up in the dark
As the first nocturnal traveler starts to wake the sleeping park.

Then just like a feral mating call, some others answer back
With their 'erk, erk' flaming chorus, as the first start down the track.

Everything they pack's metallic, and it clatters, bangs and dongs
As they bark out loud instructions, amid hollow clacks of thongs.

Now it's best to warm your motor, if your leaving in the dark
Especially if it's diesel, and jackhammers all the park.

Cause now it's time to hook on, and you hear the circus start
More left, not right - I said this way, you pig-headed, deaf old fart.

And how dare you call me brainless, you ungrateful senile drone
If you don't want directions, do it on your bloody own.

And by now the doors are slamming, just to finish off the show
"Are you sure you turned the gas off"?, you shout, "Just bloody go".

Because now it's almost daylight, and the camp picks up the pace
As these geriatric gypsies all begin their morning race.

For the next park is their target, where like metal ants they flock
For the first in gets the best shade, and a close ablution block.

But for us still vainly sleeping, we just toss and kick and turn
Who said holidays are restful?, beauty sleep is what we yearn.

But there's miles of zippers zinging, as the tents all fold and go
And there's campervan doors grinding, as they whiz bang to and fro.

And there's neighbours out there yelling, "Looks like another nice day, Fred"
And you think it would be better, if you mob were still in bed.

You can't beat 'em so you join 'em, in this hyperactive spree
For the laundry's now in full swing, throbbing like a DC3.

To the bathroom men are walking, holding buckets with a lid
While discussing ageing prostates, and comparing what each did.

Then a rotten kid starts whinging, and will not do what he's told
"Bring back the lash" you yell out, "It worked fine in days of old".

All this action makes you thirsty, so you start to lift a lid
Then he comes from out of nowhere, the Eternal Outback Kid.

He's a clone of Harry Butler, Malcolm Douglas rolled in one
He has fished and climbed and driven every track under the sun.

And he brags about his conquests, twice around the bush and back
Though you half suspect his tinny has been welded on his rack.

For this man is a fanatic, he has traveled everywhere
After half an hour's ear-bashing, you wish he was still there.

Cause now in the park it's show time, magic moments all can share
You prepare for entertainment, as you grab a beer and chair

For here come the new arrivals, with the wives all looking terse
You thought leaving was a hassle, well arriving's ten times worse!

Cause hand-waving female logic, with male thinking won't compute
So a jack-knife on the van site, soon erupts in hot dispute.

It's as good as any circus, wife and husband on attack
As spectators in their deck-chairs, watch the rigs shunt up and back.

For there's tree and shrubs to barge through, and a water tap of course
Then the happy couple unhook, mostly ending in divorce.

Then in come the tourist buses, with their worn and frazzled crew
And they bail out almost running, for they all have jobs to do.

Then a canvas city rises, built with hammer's echoed clacks
From the old girls driving tent pegs bike they're laying railway tracks.

Then it's 8pm, cheap phone calls, there's a rush to all get through
There's three phones for 90 people, and you're the last one in the queue.

With the callers always yelling, 'cause their homes are far away
Forcing half the park to eavesdrop each and every word they say.

Telling all about the weather, and adventures they've been through
Then they swap and start repeating, from the others' point of view.

Then the lights dim on the campground, and a gentle hush then falls
'Cept the drone of rasping snoring, through each caravan's thin walls.

And you drift in gentle slumber, as sweet dreams flit through your head
Till at 5am there's 'erk, erk, erk', "Hell, here we go again!"

An Ode to the 'Parkie'

A Parkie's a bloke who with undaunted vim
Is convinced that a van park is suited for him
With freedom and lifestyle a saint would inspire
Just buy up a park, collect dough. ...and retire!
There's fishing and chatting to fill up the day
And kind smiling tourists who drop in and pay.

So he buys up a park to get in on the lerk
The old bloke who sold is an absolute jerk
To pass up this Eden, this God's paradise,
It's plain that the fellow could use some advice
But its strange that at 40 he seems old and grey
And he carries a waddy to keep people at bay
But then there are some who just go that way
And of course, that won't happen to him.

In a short space of time, as the facts quickly dawn
That the jerk's off the hook and now he is the prawn
His fishing's confined to what's flushed down the sink
And he grovels in sewers to locate the stink
And the fish in the garbage have started to pong
And it slowly sinks in that in fact he's been wrong
It's just work and more work to maintain the place
And in truth he now doubts be can keep up the pace
The tourists don't smile, they grumb1e and frown
And remove anything that he hasn't chained down
But of poets and artists he gets quite a few
For they practice their art on the doors of the loo
And in truth they are surely a curious breed...
When it comes to instructions they simply can't read
Can this really be happening to him?

His wife's going to leave if things don't get better
Since she does half the work he simply can't let her
That night he will charm her.. it's going real beaut
When the silence is marred by a drunken dispute
He makes off to quell it for peace he must keep
When he finally returns, alas she's asleep
He lovingly wakes her, again all is well
What's that? Oh my god, some clot's pressed the night bell
Next time for his trouble she snarls, "Go to hell"
Oh! It just shouldn't happen to him!

So they both stagger on as the dream slowly dies
And each day that dawns brings a nasty surprise
So she buys him a waddy and notes grey in his hair
And settles to live in his world of despair
Till another young hopeful arrives on the scene
With his wallet a-bulging and chasing a dream
And his mind full of visions and fancies galore
He buys.. and the story's enacted once more
And, of course, it will happen to him.

Unless he has staff who will take on the work
He will surely end up as the previous jerk
And so it's essential to not compromise
But to take careful note of the happier guys
Who don't run their parks without other folk's help
Else he'll surely end up like on old piece of kelp
Just waving around in a sea of despair
Removing great tufts of the rest of his hair.